A Peak Experience — Chris Baccash | Stories on Staying Alive

Leading Up

In 2019, a few of my teammates from Doylestown Bikeworks, our home-grown bike-racing squad, wanted something different. We yearned for the adrenaline of novel races, new places, and pushing past comfort. We were burnt-out from racing the same races in the Northeast six years in a row, but we could agree that there were SOME races that interested us. Races with mileage in the triple digits, deep in nature, and time zones away from what was familiar. An autumn conversation with teammates Jason Wood, Chris Meacham and team director, Brian Boger, sealed in the commitment for a 2020 "Alternative bike racing Calendar." A month later, I was slammed with the health crisis.

From my hospital bed in Philadelphia, the night before my first surgery, I turned to my visiting teammates and said, "When I'm out of here, let's race Leadville."

What Is Leadville?

The Leadville 100 mountain bike race is fabled for breaking cyclists with thin air, scrambly terrain and 11,000 feet of elevation gain. It's falsely advertised as a 100 mile race. It's 104.

Leadville, Colorado has the highest elevation of any incorporated city in the United States at 10,152 feet. It commences with a gunshot from a double-barreled break-action shotgun in the center of town at 6th and Harrison. The course, made of steep washed-out jeep roads, some speedy pavement and windy single track kicks racers out of town and tops out 52 miles later, at the Columbine Mine (12,200 feet) before sending its prey back the way they came.

Two Years and One Pandemic Later

Ten of us convened on the AirBnB like a long-awaited family vacation. We poked around our wild western base camp and took care of the essentials... Like figuring out how to work the foreign coffee maker. Ryan, my high school friend and our videographer, mastered the record player while Brian and Fran, also childhood friends and now business partners, cracked jokes and relived the humors of pandemic-era travel.

We walked downtown Leadville and perused each retail establishment except the famous Melanzana outdoor clothing store and factory-- it's by appointment only due to violent levels of demand. 1,700 bike racers descend on town for this race every year. Each brings a crew member or two. We had a crew of six for four racers. The population of Leadville more than triples on race weekends.

The race's strain on the town was clear when Brian poked into a pub to evaluate their ability to seat a party of ten for dinner, the bartender cried back from a crowded bar, "Uhhhh...We only got frozen pizza left!"

Team director and people person, Brian Boger

The hosts at our compound were quick to make a warm experience for us-- we acclimatized and spun out our travel legs with the host and his son on a ride through the eastern slopes of town. The family dog took us for a hike around the abandoned mines nearby. You read that right.

We arrived on a Wednesday, three days before the start. Plenty of time to brew a keg of nervous anticipation. Our starting corral was a frequent topic. Rob, our sponsor and a six-time Leadville starter, warned Jason, Chris and I that our starting position (the way back) would present a predicament. 1,500 people were starting in front of us. If we wanted space on the course, we'd have to do hard work in the first hours of the race to pass hundreds of racers.

We had plenty of time to connect, too. The smoke from California wildfires in the air made sunset art over Colorado's highest peaks to the West. Sitting with nine friends two nights before the race, the wave crashed over me: friendship. The pandemic crushed the part of our lives that thrives on in-person bonding with our friends. We were starved of that for too long. When nobody was looking, I leaked a peaceful tear.

On the race's eve, Brian reminded us that we endured some "not insignificant things," to get here.

Some of those things are obvious-- a pandemic, a canceled Leadville 2020 and a collection of personal triumphs amongst the group. More conspicuously: questioning if I really wanted to race this event , or race bikes at all, during the pandemic’s motivational drought.

The ten of us sat in a circle beneath the cabin’s cathedral ceiling and repeated the logistics and plan for race day. Our capable mechanic detailed and dialed in our bikes and joined the rest of the crew in choreographing how to move from each aid station with the right food and supplies. They danced with skill on game day.

Dan Turner: Passionate mechanic, impressively good human

Did we have a plan?

Jason, my ponderosa pine-sized teammate, and I have raced and trained together since 2014. We spent a weekend training in Central PA in May, which is where I found some motivation and clarity about the reasons I wanted to race Leadville.

On a climby training ride through Pennsylvania's healthiest of forests, it was easy to visualize Leadville on the horizon. Jason and I both took a tumble on loose gravel that weekend and reconnected with the joy of finding the unknown along dirt roads.

During a chat about what we love and hate about bike racing I said to Jason, "I think we should race together at Leadville. Whatever happens, we should just stick together that day. I think that's all I want from it."
Jason: "Deal. I like that."

Going to a race with the intention to win for yourself feels less good than doing it to experience with someone else.

Race Day, August 14th 2021

Bundled in our minivan, we commuted down the hill to the center of town. Temps were in the thirties but would rise to a sweltering 80 in the high desert sun. We fretted like teenagers over what to wear.

We clunked helmets, hugged the crew and walked by dawn light to our corrals. I started one corral in front of Jason and Chris, which presented a challenge for our plan: separated at the start.

Trust

In the first two hours of the race we both passed a few hundred people, putting our road racing pack handling to good use. I knew Jason was putting his skill to work back there, picking off competitors and trimming the gap between us.

Jason is a consummate descender and routinely puts minutes into his competitors with gravity as his weapon. I, on the other hand, was fighting a pathological distrust of my descending skills. I was all locked up on the steep, slidy downhills and giving the positions back that I earned on the climbs. It took 26 miles for Jason to bridge the gap. It was a welcomed reunion.

With Jason's exemplary descending now on full display, I eased off the brakes and melted into a flow. I loosened my grip, surrendered to gravity and skied down the loose dusty gravel on two wheels.

We kept our eyes up, and dwelled on two turns ahead, not the one already beneath us. Our bikes went where our eyes went.

Jason and I rolled into the first aid station to meet our crew together, two miles after joining forces. We celebrated the reunion for short minutes while refilling our water and stuffing pockets full of food.

Aid stations are comfortable but dangerous. Seeing friends and stopping to eat snacks feels awesome, and we wanted to stay a while. But too much time at aid stations adds to the day's length and erodes the adapted posture on the bike. The bike is the mold into which we cast ourselves. Learning to walk again after hours in the bike's cast throws the body out of equilibrium all over again.

For 78 more miles we played the roles of nurse, cheerleader, counselor, and dietitian for each other. Finishing together meant heeding each others needs.

Mid-cramp, I called to Jason "Too fast man, I gotta spin through this." We walked our bikes when the narrow trail was too steep and crowded to ride. We had Fig Newtons in heaven at the 12,200 ft turnaround aid station atop the Columbine Mine. We lived the Goldilocks tale, finding a pace not too hard, not to easy but just painful enough through the sandblasting flats. We swore that each horrid tube of viscous "Gu," would be our last. Ever! The afternoon sun seared us with permanent tan lines on our arms and legs.

Locals and cabin dwellers along the course doled out trail magic: cold coke and icy rags, which lifted our moods and our pace.

On the penultimate climb, I panted a question to a racer on a single speed bike (yes, a dude racing the same race on a bike with ONE gear).
“How many more kicks on this climb?” He nodded towards the horizon and revealed, "After we top out on this one, there’re a couple more fuck yous before the real top."

We went silent for stretches of the race. Jason queried me after a quiet bit: "Is it too early to start thinking about hugs?"

"I think it's OK to think about hugs." I replied, and joined the happy anticipation.

The start of the race is downhill, coming back into town is uphill. Four more miles. We sloshed through a manure puddle at the low point by the Union Pacific tracks and a ranch. It caked on the image of soiled fatigue.

Jason floated final encouraging words and we pedaled through the spasms in our legs and throbbing knots in our back up the final hills into town.

The finish line trellis appeared from half a mile away when we crested the final dirt hill and rolled onto pavement. There was no sprint in our legs, just dust in our lungs. With our bodies draped over our bike frames, we saw our first friend who ran beside us-- Fran's celebratory energy contrasted starkly against our panting. Then we heard Lindsay, Jason's bride. She hooted at the top of her lungs and jumped like the street was lava. Lindsay worked all day in the feed zones and kept my mom updated and excited. She cried relief with every "You did it!" Her emotion catalyzed ours.

I thumped Jason on the back, let out a scream from my dust-torn throat, and a tear out of my red eyes. We joined hands, put them further into the high desert sky, and crossed the line. We crossed from danger to safety, from pain into comfort.

A Little Gratitude

On semi-solid legs we hugged and cried and slouched our broken selves on a brick wall where the next wave of gratitude for safety and opportunity, friendship, cool, clean water, and for the crew that took care of every meal, logistic and need crashed over me. I spent a minute in disbelief-- mulling over my fortune to be here and pedal a bike through the hardest event of my life. I settled on the root of it all: I wish everyone got to have cancer like this.

Perched high in the sky, we came to Leadville to try our legs in a hell of a bike race. We left with something else: Love.

Love is when we experience something awesome with people we deeply value. And when we crossed the line on our riddled legs into the warmth of our Doylestown community, THAT was love. A peak experience to share and savor forever.

Thanks for being here,

CB